


Daydreams I'll Deny

by Sour_Idealist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, I accidentally got character study in my pornography, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 19:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10669317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sour_Idealist/pseuds/Sour_Idealist
Summary: Five things that will never happen between Yuri Plisetsky and Katsuki Yuuri, but one thing that does.





	Daydreams I'll Deny

**Author's Note:**

> All sexual contact takes place within fantasy sequences. Within those sequences, there's one scene of unclear / poorly-established consent, and one of drunk sex.

**I.**

Yuri rolls over and over, punching his stupid flat Japanese pillow. His head hurts, he spent fifteen minutes failing to use chopsticks tonight before Katsudon’s hag sister handed him a fork while laughing at him, he’s still jetlagged, and, of course, Victor Nikiforov is an asshole flibbertigibbet moron.

(Flibbertigibbet is one of his grandfather’s favorite words. Yuri likes it.)

In conclusion, everything sucks and he hates Japan.

And can’t sleep.

He sighs, rolls onto his back, closes his eyes, and sticks his hand down his pants. If he were at home he’d have Vaseline, but he didn’t bring any. Still, it’ll be fine – he just needs to think…

> Katsuki is in the shower, sniffling about whatever the hell his problem is. He doesn’t notice Yuri stomping in, still dressed, until Yuri grabs his shoulder and spins him around.
> 
> “Wha –”
> 
> “You need to stop whining,” Yuri snaps. “I’m cheering you up so you’ll shut up and skate.” It’s easy to muscle Katsuki up against the wall; he’s taller than Yuri, better-muscled, older, but he flails without pushing back.
> 
> “There,” Yuri says, “stay there,” and drops to his knees on the shower floor, water spraying over his back.
> 
> “What are you doing?” Katsuki splutters.
> 
> “I just told you, asshole,” Yuri says, pinning Katsuki by the hips, and leans in to lick his cock from root to tip. Katsuki jerks, his thighs twitching.
> 
> “Hold still,” Yuri snaps, and sucks Katsuki’s cock into his mouth. He tastes salty, still slick from the shower; he’s not hard yet, but Yuri sucks at him twice and can feel Katsuki stiffening in his mouth.
> 
> “Wha – why?” he sputters. Yuri rolls his eyes and slaps his hip, dragging his teeth along Katsuki’s cock in a quick sharp warning. Katsuki moans, hips rolling up against Yuri’s hands, and Yuri slaps him again.
> 
> “Sorry,” he whispers, and slumps loose-limbed back against the wall, whining when Yuri sucks him deep enough for the back of Yuri’s throat to ache.
> 
> It doesn’t take long, for a man of his age – typical – before he whimpers and the taste of salt and musk floods Yuri’s mouth. He pulls back and spits, not bothering to turn his head, so that Katsuki’s come and his own saliva splatter on Katsuki’s thighs, mixing with the shower water and streaming down the corded muscle –

Yuri slumps against the bed, panting. He’s going to have to find some tissues in a minute. Ugh.

It’ll never happen. Yuri was raised well enough to _ask_ before he gets his mouth on someone’s cock, for one thing; for another, Katsudon would probably shove him halfway across the locker room, and Yuri would probably break a wrist and ruin his senior season. Also, Yuri has no idea how to suck cock.

Still. The tension drained out of him when he came; he can lie quiet in the weird flat bed. Maybe now he can get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

**II.**

The event’s in two days. Yuri’s washing his hair, running through the spin sequence in his head again. It’ll be hard, which is good. If it were easy it’d be a shit program. If it were a shit program, he couldn’t beat Katsuki with it. Katsuki’s going to be a real show, if he can land his jumps and not melt into crying a Jell-O heap again.

There’s this one stupid thing that Yuri hasn’t been able to get out of his head. It’s been days.  With a sigh, he slumps turns his face to the showerhead and wraps a hand around his dick.

> “Yuri?” Katsuki says. They’re at the center of the empty rink; they’re in their competition outfits, not their practice clothes. Yuri pauses in the middle of stretching his neck out, looking at Katsuki over his shoulder. “Yeah?” Katsuki is bowed over his folded hands; the slanting light of the rink glints off his costume and catches on his fingers, on the wispy hairs at the nape of his neck. 
> 
> “May I touch you?”
> 
> Yuri shrugs, unruffled. “Sure,” he says, and shakes out his hair.
> 
> Katsuki skates closer, skimming his fingers over Yuri’s hips, the curve of his ass, up over the planes of his back. Katsuki’s breath hitches as he finds the zipper at the V of Yuri’s costume, and when he pulls it down, he follows it with two fingers tracing the exposed skin. He buries his face in Yuri’s hair, and his lips brush the back of Yuri’s neck. His breath is hot and quick.
> 
> Yuri pulls into a quick half-spin, bringing himself up sharp and face-to-face with Katsuki. His hair slaps Katsuki’s face; Katsuki’s hands slide back to Yuri’s hips instead of letting go completely. Katsuki is flushed, wide-eyed.
> 
> “Kneel,” Yuri says with perfect authority, and Katsuki does. Yuri scratches his nails up the nape of Katsuki’s neck, raising red lines, and Katsuki leans in and mouths at Yuri’s cock through his costume. Even with the fabric between them, Yuri shivers – he suppresses it – and Katsuki’s hands keep wandering, exploring the muscles of Yuri’s thighs. Yuri sways forward, yanking at Katsuki’s hair, and Katsuki makes a soft worshipful sound and licks at him through the fabric, exploratory and eager –

Yuri lifts his forehead from the shower wall and shakes the water out of his eyes, breathing hard. Of all the stupid things to fixate on. He’s not even sure why he taught Katsuki to land the stupid jump, which is the most Katsuki ever seems inclined to ask of him, except occasionally to pass the rice.

Well, it’ll be something worth watching if Katsuki manages to land a quad Salchow out of one of those fiendish step sequences. And when Yuri wins, it’ll prove that he’s better even when Katsuki knows all the same tricks.

* * *

 

**iii.**

“You can have it. It’s almost your birthday, right?”

“Huh. Pirozhki?”

“Eat.”

“Right here?”

“Eat!” Yuri snaps, glaring. He’s not even sure what he’s doing out here in the first place.

“There’s rice in this?” Katsuki asks, chewing thoughtfully. “Pork cutlet and egg, too. It’s a pork cutlet bowl!”

“That’s right! My grandpa made it himself. Great, isn’t it?” Yuri asks. Katsuki nods, looking up at him.

> “When you’re done,” Yuri says. “Come to the rink with me later tonight. Do your routine without Victor. I’ll be watching."
> 
> Katsuki does. Katsuki sketches out “Yuuri on Ice” again and again, time after time, while Yuri leans on the edge of the rink and meets his eyes at the start of each repetition. When he lands it perfectly at last, he locks eyes with Yuri, smiling. Yuri swings himself over the boards and paces out to center ice in his sneakers.
> 
> “Good,” he says, and reaches up to take Katsuki’s face between his hands and kiss him. Katsuki blinks, eyelashes brushing Yuri’s cheek, and kisses him back, mouth opening to the press of Yuri’s tongue.
> 
> Yuri pulls back. “Now skate Eros,” he says.
> 
> “But –”
> 
> “But you had it perfect yesterday,” Yuri says. “That was yesterday. I said skate Eros.” He returns to the edge, staying on the ice, and leans back against the boards. Katsuki is still blinking at him, and Yuri raises one eyebrow and unzips his jeans.
> 
> Katsuki’s eyes widen, and then he smirks and cocks his hip. All that coquetry and tease is for Yuri in the silence.

“So,” Yuri says. “See you.” He stomps off, leaving Katsuki still chewing. Snowflakes cling to Yuri’s eyelashes, and he blinks them away.

Stupid JJ. Stupid Victor. Stupid Yakov. Stupid Katsudon, falling apart just because stupid Victor isn’t there to watch his stupid routine – like Katsuki _needs_ Victor to skate like that, like no one else could ever get his best out of him. What a waste. What a stupid unfair waste.

* * *

 

**iv.**

Yuri flops onto his bed in Barcelona, sighing. He’d expected today to be worse that it was, honestly. Usually he spends the day before a competition either at the rink or trying to claw his way out of a skin; the only time his grandpa has ever shouted at him was the day before his junior debut. Otabek was a relief as well as a distraction, keeping him busy, and the dinner was less agonizingly stupid than it might have been for the amount of Victor-and-Katsuki it involved.

Also, Katsuki’s ballerina friend snuck Yuri a glass and a half of champagne, which isn’t quieting the buzz of nerves that gathers at the base of his neck, but at least is dampening it.

Yuri rolls onto his back, scratches his hair, scrubs his hands over his face. Just a few more hours.

If – when! _when!_ – Katsuki loses the gold this year, maybe he’ll hit the champagne again. That should be fun. This time Yuri will make sure not to get sucked into it, but it’ll be fun to mock him about it later.

> “Come on, Katsuki,” Yuri says, “stop being an asshole.”
> 
> “ _No,”_ Yuuri says, grinding against Yuri’s hip and laughing. “Yuri _oooo_ –”
> 
> “Yes,” Yuri commands, and shoves open the hotel room door. “Come on.”
> 
> He gets Katsuki into the room less by force of muscle – he couldn’t do it – than because Katsuki is clinging to his waist, happy to go wherever Yuri’s going as long as he can keep burying his face in Yuri’s shoulder and worrying at Yuri’s tie. He licks Yuri’s throat.
> 
> Yuri groans, fighting a flush, and shoves him onto the bed; Katsuki clings, pulling Yuri down with him, and wraps his legs around Yuri’s hips. “Stay,” he says, bright pink, and rocks up against Yuri with sloppy abandon.
> 
> “What are you doing –”
> 
> “Stay,” Katsuki repeats, fumbling enthusiastically with Yuri’s belt, and Yuri groans.
> 
> There’s a fumbling blur of clothes and prep and lubricant, and then Katsuki’s in his dress shirt and his socks and nothing else, burying his face in the pillow as Yuri braces his hands on Katsuki’s hips and pushes into him. Yuri chokes off a breath; Katsuki throws his head back and moans, writhing against the pillow. His feet press into Yuri’s back; he arches off the mattress.
> 
> “More,” he slurs. “Please. I want you.”

Yuri stumbles into the bathroom, both to wash off his hands and to splash some water on his face. “Stop being stupid,” he snaps at his faintly-flushed reflection. Katsuki is not going to get drunk at the banquet. If Katsuki _does_ get drunk at the banquet, Victor will haul him away before he turns the whole thing into a farce again; and if for some reason Victor isn’t there, no one will allow Yuri to be the one to save Katsuki from himself, in case Yuri abandons him in the stairwell or possibly smothers him with a pillow. Both of which, to be fair, he would do.

* * *

 

**v.**

Post-season crash hits Yuri every year: a sickening empty hollowness at the core of him, where the rush of the season used to be. He knows how to deal with it.

This year he rides the rush of history for weeks, gold and records bringing him higher than he ever has before; and predictably enough, when the crash hits, it leaves him curled around a pillow in his bedroom at twelve-thirty at night, unable to sleep and trying not to cry or scream.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He breathes in and out and shoves his hair out of his eyes. Tomorrow he’ll run until his lungs are screaming and cook everything in the world with Grandpa and fall into bed, and he’ll be fine. Tonight he needs to distract himself until he can get some sleep.

> Yuri finds Yuuri in a shadowed place outside the kiss and cry, beaming at him.
> 
> “Beat your record, piggy,” he says, looping his arms over Yuuri’s sequined shoulders with the casual ease of old habit. “I told you I would.”
> 
> “You did,” Yuuri says, bumping their foreheads together. “I knew you could.”
> 
> “If you set another one, I’ll beat that too,” Yuri warns. Yuuri’s hands drift to his waist.
> 
> “What’ll you give me if I do?” he says, pulling Yuri a little closer to him.
> 
> “What’ll you give me if you _don’t?_ ” Yuri counters. Yuuri hums, his hands wandering down to the curve of Yuri’s ass.
> 
> “Anything you want,” he says. Yuri rubs one thumb over the bruise almost completely hidden under Yuuri’s collar.
> 
> “That better be a promise,” he says.
> 
> “When has it been anything else?” Yuuri says, and kisses him slowly, all tongue and anticipation.

Yuri hurls his pillow across the room, stomps into the bathroom, and sticks his entire head under the faucet. “Fuck this,” he says. “Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this!”

“Yuratchka?” It’s his grandfather’s voice, followed by a sequence of rustling thumps and the creaking of his grandfather’s door. Yuri groans, shaking the water out of his hair, and hits the light. “Yurtachka, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, and wipes his face off with a towel. “Yeah. Can we make pirozhki?”

His grandpa eyes him, bracing both hands on his cane. “It’s very late to make pirozkhi –”

“I _know_ that –”

“–what about pancakes?”

Yuri breathes out. “Yeah,” he says. “Pancakes sound good. Thanks.”

* * *

 

**\+ i.**

Victor and Katsuki insist on throwing a party at their place once everyone is in town again. Between Victor’s pleading, Mila’s stubbornness, and Yakov’s stern instructions, Yuri is compelled to show up.

It’s not as dire as he’d feared. Georgi is here, only slightly avoiding Anya instead of jumping behind the couch to hide from her, which was funny the first time but by the twelfth made Yuri want to stab him with a fork. Katsuki and Victor are willing to get a whole ten feet away from each other for a whole ten seconds at a time, which is probably some kind of miracle. Mila and Lilia are talking eagerly about something by the window, probably planning how best they can ruin Yuri’s life in wildly disparate ways.

Also, there’s a buffet and it smells fucking amazing.

After an hour or so someone turns on the stereo, and some of the furniture gets cleared away for dancing. Yuri intends no part of it, a resolution that lasts until Mila pops up in front of him and says, “What’s the matter, Yurio, too shy to dance?”

“I am _not,_ ” Yuri says, scandalized, “and don’t call me Yurio!”

It’s probably good practice anyway, he reasons as he finds the beat. He did waifish and fey last year, and he’ll never do it better than that – this year he’s going to win doing something completely new.

Katsuki’s over by the door, finishing off a glass of water. Victor has an arm around him. On a whim, Yuri dances their way and throws up his hands, arching his back and shimmying. Victor whistles.

“Yurio!” he carols. “You’re growing up.”

“Piss off,” Yuri suggests.

“Ignore him,” Katsuki says, elbowing Victor and laughing. “But, Yuri, you should come tell me about your plans this year – you’re going to build off your exhibition skate, right?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says. “Everyone’s already done Victor’s kind of thing. I need to break away from him.” He sticks his chin out at Victor, who snorts.

“Victor’s doing something new this season too,” Katsuki says, smirking a little. “Come on, walk me through it – I want to know what I need to beat this year.”

“In your dreams,” Yuri says, and lets himself be drawn into the kitchen to talk quad loops and lutzes, and probably also to suffer through hearing a lot about Makkachin’s adventures and about what the Yu-topia family has been up to.

It’s not exactly what he wanted, but it feels like a pretty good start to the season anyway.


End file.
